His eyes swept down and Melusine felt the quiver at her lips where he gazed. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘And nnever would you have f-found it. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. " CHAPTER XIII. Now he courted with “servants” which he often killed afterward. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time.
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